


L'Etterno Dolore

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of my headcanon backstory for The Fury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Etterno Dolore

**Author's Note:**

> “These have no hope of death… mercy and justice disdain them. Let us not speak of them, but do thou look and pass on.” — Inferno, Dante Alighieri

The first time they came was mere days after his arrest.

He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t even considered it a possibility, but there they were - two guards at his cell door, expressionless and wordless. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him deeper into the cold grey concrete of the prison, ignoring his curses and protests like they were deaf.

He was brought to a room, and he knew what was going to happen. He could smell the blood, the piss, the shit that stained the floor of the disgusting place before they opened the door. Somehow it didn’t scare him, though; he just felt…numb.

They threw him into the room, and a new pair of hands hauled him to his feet, not waiting for him to stand. This new figure was huge, almost the size of his former captain, but rounder, his gut protruding over a bloody apron. It was almost completely stereotypical, and he laughed.

He immediately crumpled, the man having taken something metal to the side of his head - he blinked up through the pain to see a wrench in one meaty hand. Oh. He tried to stand, and the man hit him again. He coughed, choked on metal in his mouth and spit blood onto the floor to join the other stains.

The man - the fat torturer - laughed, sounding like a dying frog, and hauled him to his feet, dragging him to the far wall, spinning him roughly around and slamming him into it face-first. He felt his nose crack and tasted more blood, his head already beginning to throb painfully. Before he could move, the man had him by the wrists, no the handcuffs, yanking his arms up and chaining them to a hook in the wall.

He couldn’t see what was going on behind him, but there was no sound but movement for several long moments. Then he felt the thin shirt he was wearing rip, torn off to reveal his bare back. He had moments to realize what was going to happen before the whip struck the first time. He bit his lip roughly - and yet more copper in his mouth - and didn’t scream, though it hurt like hell.

Again and again it cracked across his bare back, each strike like lightning, and the blood dripped from his lips and nose and from his fingers as he dug nails into cracked concrete to keep from screaming. The torturer laughed again and spoke, his voice sugary with venom. “I ain’t gonna stop ‘til you scream for me, boy.” 

“Keep going then.” He hissed back through the pain. “I’m not fuckin’ making a sound.”

The handle of the whip connected with his temple and his head snapped to the side, but he still managed to keep himself from crying out. “Stubborn little fucker, ain’tcha.” The man said, though he sounded pleased. “Good. I’ll get to play with you  _more_.”

After that he was returned to his cell. But he wasn’t left alone. Once every few days, maybe it was once a week - he couldn’t tell time very well in this hellhole - the two guards would appear at his door, dragging him off to the fat man in the bloody apron.

The man got creative as the weeks passed - it was obvious they were using him as a guinea pig for the man to test out new methods; it’s not like they needed information from him. He was just there until they decided he was taking up space. So why not use him?

It was honestly a fairly impressive variety of methods, if he were more inclined to appreciate it (he probably would have if he weren’t the victim; creativity was something he could approve of after a fashion). Electric shocks that made him feel boneless and shaky, blood in his mouth from a bitten tongue and air having difficulty filling his lungs. More whippings, which after his back scarred enough he barely felt. He’d almost laughed when the man tried fire, but was smart enough not to - though it hurt, he was used to the pain of flames, and it didn’t bother him. 

There were other things, too, and honestly he stopped keeping track. Pain just blurred into pain anyway, did it really matter what caused it? He still bled, he still hurt, he still bore the scars.

He didn’t break, though, never screamed. It was a point of pride, really - he was a pathetic mess of a man, but he never let them break him. A small victory. Woo hoo, fuck you motherland. I win, you lose. You didn’t get me. Point in Dmitri’s favor.

It still hurt, though, and sometimes he wished idly they’d hurry up and kill him. It would at least end the boredom - endless hours of staring at concrete smeared with blood and old graffiti, punctuated with the occasional torture session was truly getting old fast. At least death hurt only once.

But it seemed the universe truly hated him, because weeks turned to months turned to five years of hell, and he really was so close to breaking just to see if maybe they’d fucking give up already, when it stopped.

It stopped and he was free, and he grinned like a lunatic and laughed in the guards’ faces as he passed them on his way out, fresh air flushing his cheeks with cold for the first time in a very long time.

I win, assholes. I’m Dante and I’m walking right back out of hell. You didn’t break me.

I may be a fucking mess, but you didn't break me.

So fuck you.


End file.
